


In The Quiet Hours

by Azzandra



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Dubious Consent, Low Fantasy, M/M, Sexual Slavery, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:13:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 17,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzandra/pseuds/Azzandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the kink meme.</p>
<p>Prompt was: <i>In a medieval fantasy setting, humans and trolls coexist but barely know anything about the other species. What humans do know about trolls is that they are pretty wild, don't really have villages etc. Now during winter, some trolls are willing to move into a human's house and lay with them in exchange for food and shelter.</i></p>
<p>
  <i>John is a small lord in some far-away land in the woods. He doesn't have many servants or anything, but can easily afford another mouth to feed, and it gets very lonely out in the middle of nowhere. One evening, returning from a ride, he stumbles across a hurt troll alone in the woods and figured he's found a solution to his problem.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Karkat is super wary of the human at first, but quickly realizes that going home with him is most likely his only chance of making it trough winter. So he lets John pull him up into his saddle and take him home, where John treats him surprisingly well and cares for his wounds. The sex is a bit scary at first, but they get used to eachother's bodies fast, and Karkat quickly develops feelings that he'd like to think are black, but might actually be red.<br/></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The ground is frozen solid, though it hasn't snowed in a month. It is so cold, that you can feel it chilling the soles of your feet right through your boots. Or maybe you're imagining it. You're certainly hungry enough to justify a little delirium.   
  
And now you're back to thinking about food. Fan-fucking-tastic. It's like there's no way to sabotage yourself that you haven't discovered yet. If you didn't know any better, you'd almost conclude that your past iteration is an independent entity with an agenda to cause present you as much pain and misery as possible. But if that were true, then present you is probably just as much of a raging asshole and just as actively plotting against the person who will become present you in the future.   
  
Shit, you're going on a tangent. None of this makes sense. What were you doing before this? You were thinking about something. What was it?   
  
Food. You need food. There isn't any.   
  
The forest is bare, save for rotting leaves and the black tree trunks. You've already tried chewing bark, and you're not willing to give that experience another try for a long time yet. Maybe after you forget how horrible it was the first time.   
  
No food. What else?   
  
Cold. Cold all over. Cold to the bones. Everything is cold, like there isn't any heat left in the world, and for all you know, there isn't, not for the likes of  _you_ .   
  
It hurts. The cold hurts. It's seeped into you, down to your bones, making you feel heavy and tired. It hurts almost bad enough to distract you from the hunger.   
  
You need to keep moving, even though you can't remember why.   
  
Something about food. There isn't any.   
  
There isn't any food and the cold hurts.   
  
You just need to rest a minute.   
  
You need to lie down for a bit.   
  
The ground is cold, but so are you.   
  
It doesn't matter anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning is just as cold as the one before, and despite the fact that it only snowed once, it is still, technically, winter. 

The forest is desolate and a bit spooky, but you decide to go out on your usual ride. 

It's quiet, even the sound of Casey's hooves against the ground being muffled by the frozen air. You'd thought a short ride through the forest would pick up your spirits, but it's actually pretty depressing out here. It's nothing like in the summer, when the sound of ruffling leaves can cheer you up. Now, the wind is biting and it numbs your cheeks.

You decide to turn back, and that's when you notice that the forest isn't as empty as you'd thought.

It's just a small patch of brown that you glimpse out of the corner of your eye and can't identify right away. When you approach, the strange shape on the ground resolves itself into a figure bundled under a cloak.

“Hello?” you call out, then dismount as you get closer.

Sometimes, some poor soul from the outlying villages ventures into the forest to poach during winter. It's usually a wasted effort, since nothing larger than a squirrel has lived in this forest since your grandfather's time. But someone hungry or desperate enough might not mind a squirrel or two, and if you or your servants ever come across one of these kinds of poachers, you usually give them something from your own pantries to take back to their family, and Rose writes their name down in the ledger, so they can pay back the food in labor, later in the year. The villagers don't trust ledgers, and they trust Rose even less for minding the ledgers. You get the feeling they'd prefer getting a beating instead, like neighboring landowners do with encroachers.

But it's barely the beginning of winter, and it's not usually until spring that they chance the forest.

You approach the figure and unceremoniously flip him over, fully expecting him to be dead.

For a second, you honestly do think you're looking at a corpse, and consider sending some servants out to dig the poor wretch a grave. You are already pondering the difficulties of trying to dig into the frozen ground, when you finally realize you are mistaken. It's the gray skin that throws you off, but the fangs poking out of his mouth make you do a double take.

It's a troll.

You push back his hood and—yep, two little horns, right on top of his head.

Definitely a troll.

Huh.

Now the big question: is it a  _dead_  troll?

You pull off a glove and press your hand against his face.

He's certainly corpse-cold, but you've heard some trolls can be freezing to the touch as a matter of course. You find his wrist and press your fingers to it, searching for a pulse. Do trolls have pulses?

You can't feel anything, anyway, other than cold, rough skin.

You are trying to figure out your next move when you are startled to see that the troll has opened his eyes and is looking right at you. 

“Hey, you're alive!” you say, and realize that stating the very obvious isn't the best way to make a good first impression.

His irises are a brilliant red, and you've honestly never seen this color on a troll, ever. He tries sneering at you, but fails miserably, and closes his eyes again. You're pretty sure he's hypothermic. Trolls with bright warm blood colors aren't supposed to feel cold, this much you know.

“No, hey, wake up.” You shake his shoulder and he responds with a threadbare growl. “You're going to die out here. Come on, grouchy, up and at 'em.”

You try to wrest him to his feet, but he's just dead weight. You only manage to pull him up with his back against a tree.

“Okay, how about this. Work with me, and there's a bowl of hot stew in it for you.”

He opens an eye and looks at you, as if gauging your sincerity. You put on your most earnest look.

“By the fire,” you add. “In a comfortable chair. There may even be  _blankets_  involved in this scenario.”

He scowls at you, but something must be getting through to him, because he tries to raise his arms. It looks like he isn't completely in control of them, but you grab him by the forearms and pull him to his feet. There's a moment when he almost tilts over, but you straighten him and help him totter over to your horse. You half-drag, half-carry him the short distance, and he makes some half-hearted effort at putting one foot in front of the other, but it's stiff and uncoordinated.

Casey gives the troll an unimpressed look and snorts. You just now recall what someone told you once, that horses don't like trolls, and you're afraid for a few seconds that the mare isn't going to allow you to bring him near her. She doesn't react much, however, and you manage to lift him up into your saddle despite all your difficulties. He's being remarkably docile for a troll, but you have the feeling that might have to do with the fact that he's more dead than alive right now.

You just hope returning with a troll in tow won't startle the servants too badly.


	3. Chapter 3

The servants aren't startled the least bit.    
  
You didn't really expect Dave to do anything but crack a joke about picking up strays as he helps you get the troll down from Casey's back, but Jane is perhaps the one who takes to the situation with most aplomb. She insists on taking the troll to the servant quarters in the manor's west wing (“One does not simply put a troll in the guest suite, my lord,” she says. “One does not put a troll in any room with nice things at all.”), and then she tells Jade to stoke up the fire while she returns to the kitchens to prepare something for the unexpected guest. You suggest stew.   
  
The situation being taken out of your hands, you take your own lunch in the dining room and then retreat to the library to read.   
  
In theory, at least. In practice, you just sit in your armchair and stare at the fire, book forgotten in your lap. Jade comes in to bring you some tea, and as she puts down the tray, it's clear she can't help satisfying her curiosity.   
  
“Is he going to be wintering here, then?” she asks, and you know perfectly well who she's talking about, and what 'wintering' refers to when it comes to trolls.    
  
It's a bit unorthodox for servants to ask such indiscreet questions, but you've known Jade your entire life, and it's hard to maintain any kind of poise around childhood friends when they'd been there to witness every foible of your youth.   
  
“I don't know,” you answer honestly. “He wasn't exactly conscious when I stumbled over him, Jade. We didn't have time to hash out all the details.”   
  
“Well, whatever you decide,” she replies, and leaves you with your tea.   
  
You were hoping she'd stay, just so you'd have someone to talk to, but that's not a realistic desire. If you ordered her to stay and keep you company, she'd do it, but then she'd either have to make up for lost work later, or the other servants would need to pick up the slack, and you know that that would send the entire household into disarray and cause them all sorts of difficulties.   
  
You just wish you'd have someone to talk to, sometimes. Just for a little while.   
  
*   
  
In the span of a few hours, you inquire about the troll visitor several times, but both Jane and Jade assure you that he's still very much unconscious.   
  
“He doesn't feel like an icicle anymore, though,” Jane tells you. “That has to be an improvement.”   
  
So you go to Rose's study. Rose is always a good person to talk to—or talk at. You're not sure how she can both pay attention to what everyone around her is saying and do her work at the same time, but you're almost completely sure that there is no magic involved. The villagers and some of the other servants would disagree, but you'd definitely know if you had a witch living under your roof, right? Right.   
  
You find her surrounded by the usual household's and account books, filling in the carefully drawn tables with her usual looping script. From what you can read upside-down, she is currently adding up the kitchen expenses for the month.   
  
You let yourself fall into the chair in front of her desk and sigh.   
  
“We could afford to house and feed another individual with ease for a span of at least five months,” she says unprompted.   
  
You're taken aback, because you hadn't even asked the question yet.   
  
Rose isn't a witch, you assure yourself. She can't actually see the future or read your mind or turn you into a toad.   
  
“Uh... okay? Why are you telling me this?”    
  
She lifts her gaze off the ledger to look at you sternly. It's the kind of look you expect someone to give you over their glasses, but Rose has the eyes of an eagle.   
  
“Because I have made the calculations, my lord,” she replies crisply.   
  
With that, you leave her study. Jade is waiting for you at the door, and you can see by the way she's rocking on the balls of her feet that she's eager to bring you some piece of news.   
  
“He's awake!” she tells you.

*   
  
Seeing the troll gulp down the stew is a bit unsettling, especially the way he works those fangs into the strips of meat, which you can see perfectly because he chews with his mouth open. Trolls probably don't have the same kind of manners as humans, so you don't say anything.    
  
He holds the bowl close, like he's afraid you're going to reach across the table and snatch it from him, and his eyes never leave you for a second. Mistrust rolls off him in waves, and the way his eyes dart around the room gives him the air of a hounded animal.   
  
Truth be told, you feel a bit awkward, just sitting with him in silence while he eats. But it doesn't look like he wants to stop eating to talk, so you just sit there and wait until he licks his bowl clean.   
  
“So,” you say. “Were you just passing through the forest?”   
  
“Why don't you get to the point?” he sneers. “I was caught on your land, and humans don't like that kind of shit, do they? So take whatever it is you want from me and stop prolonging the fucking agony.”   
  
You're a little bit insulted to have someone you just saved from death's door would speak to you like that.    
  
“It's not what I want—“   
  
“So you're going to kill me, instead,” he cuts you off. “Is that it? Okay, fine, you fixed me up so you can hang me properly. Or have the villagers lynch me. Or burn me at the stake. Whatever it is, get it over with, because this is the best I've felt in days and I might as well die now, before the world has time to fling more crap in my face.”   
  
“Will you let me talk? Geez, it's like someone poked a hole on your gabsack and you're leaking words all over the place,” you snort, repeating an expression you heard once from Dave.   
  
“That doesn't even make sense,” he growls. That was exactly what you'd said to Dave at the time, but you try not to smile.   
  
“Uh, yeah it does. Every human has a gabsack. It's like an internal organ, only instead of fluids it produces words, and lets them steadily stream out into the mouth through a little orifice. Some people have wider orifices, which is why they talk a lot, but if it's punctured, it can lead to terminal logorrhea. It's why humans don't like eating meat with the bones still in it. Too high risk of gabsack puncture.”   
  
He stares at you for a few seconds, before narrowing his eyes in suspicion.   
  
“You're fucking with me,” he says low, tapping a claw on the tabletop. He looks like like he's thinking really hard, which is to say he's scowling. But you can tell it's a really thoughtful scowl! “That's not a real organ. You're either making this up, or human physiology is even more pan-numbingly stupid than anyone ever suspected.”   
  
“I'm pretty sure pans can't feel numb, though,” you shrug.   
  
“It's not a literal pan, you bulgeknot,” he hisses.   
  
“What about the bulgeknot, is that literal? Sounds painful.” You give the troll your best shit-eating grin. You have only the vaguest idea of what a bulge is, but by the way the troll sputters and blushes, you guess it really  _is_  what you thought it was. “Then I guess I must be right about the gabsack, too, huh?”   
  
“Fuck you with a rusty iron prong,” he shoots back.   
  
Silence stretches out between you again, awkward, but far less tense than before.   
  
“So what do you want?” he asks, quiet and defeated. It makes you feel irrationally guilty for a second.   
  
You feel the need to push the words out before you become too nervous and can't.   
  
“I was wondering if you wanted to stay for the winter.”   
  
He purses his lips and looks away from you, but eventually, he nods once, gravely, as he stares down at the table.   
  
“Yeah. I'll stay,” he says.   
  
“Great! We can move you to the guest quarters and—“   
  
“This room's fine,” he interrupts.   
  
“Oh, but it's a bit small—“   
  
“It's.  _Fine_ .”   
  
He sounds really serious this time, and you feel like it would be a bad idea to argue.   
  
“Um, okay. I'll... send someone later to get you for dinner, then,” you tell him, and get up to leave.   
  
He nods, staring down at the table.   
  
You guess it's a situation you both have to get used to.   
  
“Oh, wait,” you stop when you reach the door. “I don't even know your name.”   
  
He frowns, and you're sure he's not going to tell you what it is.   
  
“It's Karkat,” he grouses eventually.   
  
You beam.    
  
“Well, hi, Karkat. I'm John.”


	4. Chapter 4

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you are currently wondering what fresh hell you might have gotten yourself into this time.

You've been feeling adrift ever since waking up in this room with its warm bed and crackling fire. You still ache all over, and the fatigue of the long road is only now catching up to you, but this is the first time in weeks that you're not cold and starving. The sensation is almost alien, just as your surroundings are.

The human dwelling has some superficial resemblance to a troll hive. The block—no, the “room” has a bed, a small wardrobe, a fireplace, two chairs and a narrow table next to the bed, but the furniture is perfectly square at the corners, and made of dead wood instead of the organic fiber you're used to. It's sharp and unyielding, like everything else the humans make. Even the warmth is suffocating, and everything about the smells in this place is slightly off.

It smells like humans. Not just their body odor, which you could get used to easily, but the corrosive substances and artificial scents they use to clean themselves and their homes. They are fond of the smell of vegetation, and upon opening the wardrobe you find a bundle of dry plants, emanating a flagrance that you suspect the human find pleasing. You take the bundle and throw it in the fire. The only other things in the wardrobe are your cloak and the small empty bag you had tied to your back in the vague hope of keeping food in it. You don't want the smell to seep into either of these.

You pace from one end of the room to the other. Today is the first time you've eaten in a week, and you simultaneously feel too full and hollow on the inside. Your body is protesting this constant motion, but if you stand still, you begin feeling nauseous.

You suppose you can get used to this situation. You  _have_  to get used to it, because you were severely mistaken in your assumption that you could reach warmer lands before the winter started. It's typical, really, that you would stumble into the very situation you've always tried to avoid.

You've never wintered with the humans before.

You have ( _had_ ) friends who do this every winter, but it was just never something you would ever have considered doing yourself. It's a struggle just to be around other trolls at times, and you've never wanted to take any chances with humans. You've heard of deals gone wrong before, those horror stories that always circulate in low tones at crossroads (“My moirail's matesprit's auspistice once tried wintering with a human and she had to leave halfway through when the snows were neck-high, it was just that bad!”). You would rather die at your own hand than because of some hornless fuckhead who doesn't have the decency to uphold a bargain.

But.

But it's easy to be stubborn in the early autumn days when the heat of summer still clings and food is still easy to find or steal. It's easy when you can always keep moving and sleep wherever you can find a dry spot. It's somewhat harder when you're starved and have nowhere to go, and your limbs feel heavy, like your blood has turned to lead right inside your veins.

It's harder to say no to it when you're warm and sated and know that outside it's going to be cold and hard for many months still. You just didn't expect to crack so easily, and yield to the very first human who offered. But you're not surprised; you always suspected you were a weak, cowardly piece of shit, and this just confirms it. You just hope that he is sufficiently repulsed by you that he will only make the minimum number of visits necessary to the exchange, and that you won't accept from him anything with a price higher than you're willing to pay. And maybe he also won't throw you out at the very first thaw. Or maybe he will. You're not sure which you would prefer right now.

  


Your reverie is interrupted by a firm knock on the door. You open it and come face to face with a human woman with large round glasses and a mane of long dark hair. By the plain cotton dress she's wearing, in a washed-out green, you have her pegged as one of the servants, those humans who do all the manual labor in large human homes. 

She is carrying a small stack of textiles.

“Towels,” she explains, and pushes the fabric into your arms. “For when you wash up.”

You start growling at her before you remember that it isn't wise, but you think you're plenty clean already. True, you haven't washed in a few weeks, but it's as cold as a seadweller's colon out there, so it isn't like you were sweating a great deal.

“The washroom's two doors down,” she continues, undeterred by your hostility. “I fired up the boiler hours ago. You should hurry up before the water gets cold.”

“I don't need a bath,” you say. 

“Then you're the only one who thinks so,” she snorts. “I've also left you a clean set of clothes. Leave these filthy ones in the washroom, and I'll get them when you're done.”

You bristle at this suggestion, and also at how she's implying that you're stinking up the place.

“I don't need your fucking clothes,” you yell. “And I don't need a bath, either.”

“You know, Lord John would have let you leave if you wanted,” she says, folding her arms and staring you down.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” you ask.

“I mean that if you didn't want to winter with him, he still would have let you leave, and maybe even given you something for the road ahead. And he wouldn't have asked for anything in return,” she says. “So the least you could do is show a little cooperation and—hey!”

You storm past her down the hall and towards the washroom before she can finish her diatribe.

“And don't forget the soap!” she yells just before you slam the door closed behind you.


	5. Chapter 5

In retrospect, that bath was exactly what you'd needed. The water was hot, not just lukewarm like you expected. It was also tinged yellow to begin with, but you will learn later that this is because of the clay in creek's waterbed, since that's where the manor's water is being pumped in from.   
  
By the end of your wash the water had turned a dark brown, and you'd drained the ablution trap and refilled it so you could finish washing up properly. The water was much colder the second time, and you made quick work of it, but it was unexpectedly pleasant to be free of weeks' worth of road dirt that you hadn't even noticed until now.   
  
The clothes Jade mentioned were a plain white shirt, a pair of dark trousers and a light vest, all probably belonging to a servant, if you were to judge by the wear and tear. You were also given a new pair of boots, but you pointedly avoided them because you were not in the mood to break in new shoes. There's nothing wrong with your boots. They might be ugly, but they're very dependable.   
  
Now that you're clean and dressed, you decide to return to your room, but you cross paths with another servant, one who introduces herself as Jane. She's older and shorter, but rounder than the other servant girl, and she smells faintly of baked goods.   
  
“His Lordship wants you to join him for dinner,” she says, and reaches out to straighten the collar of your shirt and button up your vest.   
  
You tense up at her ministrations, but you're not sure if you should do anything to stop her. For all you know,  _Lord_  John has made you available to his entire household, and denying his servants would forfeit the bargain. You've heard of such situations before. “The price of luxury,” someone told you once, in a sing-song voice and with a sort of pride that seems sinister in retrospect.   
  
She brushes invisible dust off your shoulders and takes a step back to look at you. You try not to fidget under her scrutiny, but when she's done staring and nods once, you feel like you've passed inspection.   
  
“I'll lead you to the dining room,” she says, and gestures for you to follow.   
  
You fall in step behind her as she leads you first through bare, functional hallways, and then out into the dark, opulent corridors beyond, cluttered with paintings and fancy vases and heavy velvet drapes over the windows. The division between the servants' quarters and the master's house is abrupt: only a doorway separates them.   
  
She leads you to what you assume to be the dining room, with a table large enough to seat at least a dozen people. It's just as ostentatious as the hallways you've had to walk through. The table is black and lacquered, the chairs are cushioned and elegantly carved, even the lamps on the walls are gilded. There is the portrait of a kindly man in a fur-lined cloak and a large feathered hat hanging on the wall opposite the doorway, and you guess it must be one of John's ancestors.   
  
John is already seated at the head of the table and he waves you over with a smile. Jane has made herself scarce, leaving you alone with him.   
  
You sit down in the seat adjacent to John's, where someone has thoughtfully set out the silverware for you.   
  
“I hope you're hungry,” he says. “We don't often get visitors, and Jane likes to keep the cooks jumping.”   
  
You  _are_  hungry. The stew you had just a few hours ago kick-started your metabolism, and now you're overwhelmed by a desire to completely gorge yourself. That would be a very bad idea, though. You need to pace yourself.   
  
However, your resolve is severely shaken once the food is brought out. You ignore all the bowls and saucers of side-dishes to stare at the main course. It's a whole bird, and although it's smothered in all those condiments and sauces the humans love so much, the smell of meat has never been so enticing.

The servant who brought it out starts cutting and serving pieces of it to you and John, but the minute the meat is on your plate, you completely eschew the cutlery in order to scarf down the meat as fast as you can. The servant chokes, absolutely scandalized, and even John is looking at you oddly.   
  
You ignore them both and keep eating. You concentrate on how juicy and warm the meat is, how easily it slides down your protein chute. All thoughts of pacing yourself are completely gone from your mind as instinct takes over.    
  
The servant is dismissed and departs in a huff, but John gives a conspirative smile as he sets aside his fork and rips off a leg to eat with his hands. He looks childishly delighted about this entire thing. You both eat in silence for a while, him nibbling daintily at his chicken leg, and you stuffing your protein shoot like it's the last meal you'll ever get.   
  
“So I guess you really were hungry, huh?” he says eventually, cracking a smile.   
  
“I'm sorry, but some people don't get the opportunity to eat an entire poultry whenever the fancy strikes,” you reply and you lick your claws clean of juices, “since some assholes in the world seem to be prone to hoarding as much shit as they can until there's nothing left for the rest of us.”   
  
He frowns, and you mentally slap yourself. You let your mouth get ahead of you again. You meet his gaze as shamelessly as possible though, pretending like you  _meant_  to sound rude and ungrateful, and it wasn't just a side-effect of having a shitty personality.   
  
“I don't hoard chickens, Karkat,” John says, his tone hurt. “That would be pretty silly. What would I do, gather them up and keep them in the heirloom room? They'd probably like it there, but they'd make a mess on Nanna's imported rugs.”   
  
It's a fucking  _joke_  to him. He probably has no idea how much a chicken is worth, especially when you're trying to trade for it with recalcitrant villagers who'd sooner see you keel over from hunger.   
  
“That's not what I meant, and you know it,” you grit out.   
  
“Then what  _did_  you mean?” he asks, annoyed. “Since some assholes in the world aren't smart enough to pick up on your clever insults.”   
  
You coil into yourself, every muscle tensing in anticipation of conflict. You know yourself well enough to realize that eventually, you're going to say all this anyway. If it's going to get you kicked out, you'd prefer it gets you kicked out now, and not when the heavy snows come.    
  
You eye the last of the chicken, and then pull it all in your plate.   
  
“This house. All the food and the servants and the no doubt priceless artifacts that fill the place. You didn't have to work to get them, did you? All you had to do was get born and poof, here's all this stuff, all yours, and you can keep it forever. And oh, by the way, everybody also has to suck up to you, because your blood is magical or some shit.”   
  
“It's not magical, it's noble,” he says, frowning slightly.   
  
“Oh my fucking god,  _who cares_ . It's a stupid eye-searing red and it sploshes around in your body. There is literally no difference between your blood and the blood of some other random asshole. You can't even say you're  _actually_  blue-blooded, so you instead claim to have this imaginary invisible quality that nobody can see but you assure people that it's there, because hey, you wouldn't have received all this expensive shit if you were ordinary, haha, what kind of scam would people think you're running?!”   
  
The second you finish your tirade, you chomp on the last of your meal, trying to eat as much as you can before John has the servants throw you out on your ass for speaking to him like that. Bones crack under your teeth and you suck the marrow as you watch John frown thoughtfully. 

He's silent for a long time. You don't mind. You're still not done eating. Your insides have begun cramping, but you'll be damned if you stop eating.   
  
“I don't suppose you'd understand succession, or why we do things as we do them,” John says, smiling indulgently. “I mean, I know trolls don't really have children or, um, own stuff, but you do have nobility, don't you?”   
  
“We have highbloods,” you reply, not even bothering to correct his other stupid assumptions. “And if owning a lot of shit and lording over everybody on a lower social wrung is your idea of nobility, then yeah, I guess you could call them 'nobility'.”   
  
“Human nobility isn't about that, though. It's more about... being worthy,” he says. “It's about having a duty towards those beneath you and being committed to their best interests.”   
  
You snort, because this just confirms that human nobles are just as self-deluding as troll highbloods, even if their rhetoric is different. Good god, he must have  _no fucking clue_  how condescending he sounds. You just want to smack that smug look right off his asshole face.    
  
And you'd do it, too, but your cramps are getting worse. It feels like your internal organs are getting alternately squeezed and released by a metal claw, and each squeeze feels just a little tighter. Your breath hitches as you try to relax your muscles and calm the spasms—to no success.   
  
John notices your distress, which is pretty fucking hard to miss since you're almost doubling over from the pain.   
  
“Are you okay?” He reaches a hand for your shoulder but you pull away from his touch.   
  
“Ate too much, too fast,” you mumble, trying to focus hard on not puking until your nutrition sac turns inside out.   
  
“Oh, no! Why did you do that?”   
  
“Because I haven't eaten in a week, you vapid assfuck,” you growl in reply.    
  
“Karkat, that is like the worst thing you could have done,” he scolds you, rising from his seat and walking around your chair. You wish he wouldn't traipse behind your back like that, but you have to focus on breathing evenly right now, so you can't tell him off.   
  
“Your stomach might burst,” he says unhelpfully. “Here, I'll help you to your room. You can lie down, and I'll have someone fetch a doctor—”   
  
“No,” you hiss. “No doctors. No doctors, ever.” Especially no human doctors. Not human doctors, who cut trolls open for their marrow because “they say” it can delay aging, or cut off your horns because hornpowder is allegedly an aphrodisiac. Not human doctors, who have knives and smell like herbs and blood and haven't met a troll they wouldn't like to cut up for parts.   
  
No troll doctors either, but  _especially_  no human doctors.   
  
John must realize how serious you are, because he doesn't press the issue. He helps you out of your chair, putting your arm around his shoulder and holding you tightly around the middle. He's surprisingly sturdy for a human, and also a bit taller, fact which just adds to the resentment you already feel towards him.   
  
“Alright, alright, but I'm taking you to your room. It might be better if you retched everything—”   
  
“No, fuck you, it's my food now, you can't have it back,” you growl.   
  
“Gross! Why would you even say that?” He scrunches his nose. “Fine, be stubborn, but I'll still have someone send you a bucket—”   
  
The words chill your insides, and you stumble to a halt in the middle of the hallway.

“Excuse me?”   
  
“A bucket, so you don't puke all over the floor,” John continues undaunted, and you sag in relief.   
  
Oh, of  _course_  that's not what he meant. Trolls can't even produce genetic material during sex with humans—none of the pheromones are right—and there's no way they'd even know about filial pails anyway, since there aren't any drones or mother grubs this far from the Alternian Empire. Your mind just jumped to the worst possible conclusion. You're fairly sure John wouldn't...  _insist_ , when you're feeling so bad already. Somewhat sure. Hopeful, at least.   
  
And tonight you really don't feel up to it. Tonight you don't feel up to anything, other than curling up in a ball and wishing you were dead already. Which, as a coincidence, is likely what you'll be doing anyway. Joy.   
  
He keeps up a constant flow of inane chatter until you reach your room. When you run across servants stepping forward to help, he waves them off cheefully, “It's okay, I've got this,” and you hope he doesn't think that you're up for repaying his generosity.   
  
When you finally arrive, he dumps you on the bed.   
  
He notices belatedly that he put you down on top of the covers, so he spends an inordinate amount of time pulling the blankets out from beneath you, all while you glower at him and try to be as unhelpful as possible.   
  
He pulls off your shoes and pulls the covers over you.   
  
“There we go! Feeling better?”   
  
You growl in response, but it sounds weak and pathetic.   
  
“I'll send someone for you in case you need anything. I hope you feel better soon.”   
  
You hear him leave and the sound of the door closing behind him fills you with relief.   
  
You burrow under the covers, but the night is long and restless, not made any better by the servant girl in the green dress coming in once in awhile to make sure you're not dead. You don't hear her open or close the door, but you can feel when she brushes back your sweat-slicked hair and presses a hand to your forehead, as if your temperature is the fucking problem here, and not your entire digestive system leading your body in a mutiny against you.    
  
You don't have the energy to complain, though, you just curl up tighter and breathe deeply, and if you whimper once in awhile, you're sure it's not when she can hear it.   
  
The recurring pain and bouts of nausea only subside near morning, and you manage to catch a few minutes of fitful sleep. You barely have any nightmares at all.


	6. Chapter 6

You hear from Jade about the night Karkat had, and you are filled with vague worries, even if she assures you that he'll be fine because trolls are more resilient than humans. This is a really bad start to his stay!    
  
And it's stupid, because this could have been completely preventable if he was starved. It's just that he looked awfully lively for someone who hadn't eaten in a week. You imagine you wouldn't have the energy to argue with anyone if you went even two days without food.   
  
You wish you could have had breakfast together, but apparently he was awake most of the night anyway, and it's not until mid-morning that you run across Jade again and she brings you up to speed.   
  
“He's out of bed now,” Jade says. “He's down in the kitchen, having a very light breakfast.”   
  
“Oh, he is?” You brighten up at the news. “So he's not sick anymore?”   
  
“Well, if he didn't die last night, he probably won't now.”   
  
“Jade, that's a terrible thing to say.”   
  
“It's not my fault he's a dumbass who completely disregards his own well-being,” she says, rolling her eyes. She looks like she wants to say something else, but she remembers who she's talking to and checks herself.   
  
You decide to go to the kitchens. You haven't been here in awhile, but you spent a sizable portion of your childhood sneaking in and out of this part of the house, back when Jane was still an apprentice cook and thought it was exciting to squirrel away snacks for 'the young lord'.   
  
You find Jane and Karkat in the kitchens. She is mixing something in a bowl, while Karkat is sitting at the table—hunched over, bleary-eyed—and having a cup of weak tea with biscuits. Jade wasn't kidding about it being a light breakfast. By his waxy complexion, you suppose he probably can't stomach anything heavier right now.   
  
He looks at you nervously, and you try to smile in a reassuring manner.   
  
“So I see you're back from the dead,” you say. “Again.”   
  
He scowls at you as he unenthusiastically nibbles at a biscuit.   
  
“Glad you find my physical agony so amusing,” he snarls, but he's more subdued than he was last night.   
  
“Don't badger your guest, milord,” Jane chides.   
  
“I'm not badgering,” you argue. “And even if I were, Karkat wouldn't put up with it. Isn't that right?”    
  
Jane looks doubtful, and Karkat looks away. It feels like you just said something wrong, but you're not sure what.   
  
For a few minutes, the only sound comes from Jane's whisk. Karkat isn't eating anymore, just staring forlornly into his half-full cup of tea. You need to urgently change the subject.   
  
“Hey, so, if you're done here,” you begin, and Karkat looks up at you. “Would you like to meet Casey?”   
  
“Casey. Who's Casey?”   
  
“My horse!”

*   
  
“Actually,” you explain as you show him to the stables, “I have more than one. Some draught horses, and a few for riding. But Casey's my favorite. Or, well, just the one I like riding the most? She's very sweet-tempered. I mean, you know how horses don't usually like trolls?”   
  
“Which works out fine, since we don't like them right back,” Karkat mutters. He shrugs under the borrowed cloak like he doesn't like it, but you think bright red is a good color on him. It brings out his eyes.   
  
“Well, Casey was with me when I found you. She didn't mind carrying you at all. I think you'll like her. Oh hey, there's Dave! You'll like him, too.”   
  
You wave at Dave as he walks out the stable doors carrying a shovel.   
  
“Dave!”   
  
He finally notices you as you come closer and he puts the shovel down against the stable wall.   
  
He nods to you in greeting. “M'lord.”    
  
Then he nods to Karkat. “Sleeping beauty.”   
  
Karkat bristles. Okay, maybe Dave is more of an acquired taste.   
  
“Going for a ride?”   
  
“Not today,” you say. “I just wanted to properly introduce Karkat to Casey.”   
  
“You want to introduce your new bedwarmer to your horse? I guess neither of them can complain about you wasting their time.”   
  
“Dave!” You feel yourself blushing to your eartips, and Karkat downright looks apoplectic. You'd always known Dave was coarse (working in the stables did not exactly foster a gentlemanly demeanor), and as a child, you'd even been a bit in awe of him for it, but now there's a line and he crossed it.   
  
He is immediately aware of this, because he changes the subject.   
  
“He can come in as long as he doesn't stay long or make any loud noises,” Dave says. “I don't want him spooking the horses.”   
  
“We'll be in and out, I promise.”   
  
You hook your arm around Karkat's to pull him along, and as you pass Dave, he bares his fangs. But Dave only gives him an impassive look, and you manage to walk on without a fight breaking out.   
  
Casey's stall is in the far end, on the left. The horses you pass are unnaturally quiet, but Casey is her usual chipper self. She pokes her head out when she hears you coming and nickers. You fish out a small misshapen carrot out of the bundle Jane gave you and extend it to Casey. She happily accepts and eats it in one bite. It's likely the last one she'll get this year. But as she eats, she is looking past you at Karkat.   
  
“Here, give this to her,” you say, handing Karkat a carrot.   
  
Karkat eyes Casey, paying special attention to her teeth.   
  
“Come on, she doesn't bite. Usually. I mean, she hasn't for a very long time, so I don't think she'll start again now.”   
  
“Ugh, stop reassuring me, you're awful at it,” he says, but he offers the carrot to Casey anyway.   
  
It's a tense moment as Casey stares Karkat down. He looks like he wants to bolt, but eventually, the mare reaches down and slowly eats the carrot, slobbering all over Karkat's hand in the process.   
  
He makes a face and wipes it off on his cloak. You laugh, and hand him the rest of the carrots.   
  
“Give her some more, I have to go talk to Dave for a bit,” you say.   
  
“The horse doesn't need a nurse-maid, it can eat by its own damn self,” Karkat mutters, but he does it while offering Casey another carrot, so you smile.

Dave is waiting outside, hands in pockets. He looks like a child who knows he did something bad, but is still being stubbornly rebellious.   
  
“I don't think I'll be going out riding the next few days, not unless the weather changes,” you say, looking up at the overcast sky. “It's just too depressing out there.”   
  
“I'll keep that in mind, m'lord.”   
  
Dave sounds so polite and distant, that it just makes you feel miserable to hear him. He used to be one of your best friends growing up, before the intractable differences in your status brought that to an end. You wonder, not for the first time, if Dave feels that working in the stables is an indignity all the more compounded by this fact.   
  
But for better or worse, he works for you, and you can't let him run amok out of sentiment.   
  
“Dave, I don't think you should talk like that about Karkat,” you tell him, keeping your voice low so the troll doesn't hear.    
  
It's better to be direct about these things. Dancing around the subject never helped.   
  
“Oh, is that his name?” Dave drawls carelessly. Against your better judgment, it infuriates you.   
  
“What's your problem?” you hiss.   
  
“He's not your friend,” Dave replies bluntly.   
  
You blink, not sure how to respond to this. Is Dave jealous?   
  
“He's not,” Dave continues. “He'll stick around a few months, he'll act friendly, maybe he'll even seem like he's becoming your friend, and you'll grow attached to him. You'll start thinking he feels the same about you as you do about him, and you'll grow used to all his bugnuts crazy troll habits, like a penchant for raw meat or maybe a habit of licking everything and cackling like a loon, but when the weather turns and the snows melt away, he'll be out of here faster than a milkmaid can drop her drawers, and you'll be left behind, all alone, with this brand new gap in your life, where you'll be missing something or someone you had no idea you had room for in the first place.”   
  
Oh, so  _this_  is what it's about.   
  
“Dave, you can't take it out on Karkat because you've had a bad experience,” you say reasonably.   
  
Dave's shoulders slump, defeated. You can tell he wants to argue with you, but he won't. It's frustrating, because you have to guess at what his gripe is before you address it.   
  
“And anyway, I know that Karkat's going to leave in the spring. I'm not stupid. He's a troll, of course he'll leave, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy the time he's going to be here.”   
  
Dave squares his shoulder.   
  
“Get all the joy you want out of him, then,” he says. “Because all he wants to get from  _you_  is a sure meal and a warm place for the winter. He isn't here to play nice and make friends, he's only here to survive.  _He's not your friend._ ”   
  
Dave picks up his shovel again and excuses himself, but he leaves before you can dismiss him.   
  
You look back at Karkat, as he concentrates fiercely on feeding Casey carrots. You get the feeling he's intense about everything he does. You don't think he could be unfeeling about anything or anyone, and you decide, in that moment, that you'll get Karkat to become your friend just to prove Dave wrong.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

“Hey, Karkat, there's stuff you must like, right?” John asks you on the way back to the house.

“What kind of dumbass question is that,” you mutter. “Of course there's stuff I like. Why would you assume I don't like anything?”

“Oh, no reason,” he says, and fails at hiding his grin. “But anyway, what's one thing you like?”

“I like—” (trashy romance novels) “—reading,” you say.

He brightens at this information. 

“So do I!” he says, grinning. “I especially love heroic sagas and comedies. I like plays, too, even if we don't exactly have theaters around these parts. My dad took me to the capital once and we saw a theater play, but it's actually really different from when you're _reading_ a play. It was a really great one, though, about this outlaw who used to be a soldier...”

He prattles on for a while as you return inside and relinquish your cloaks, and he leads you down a twisted hallway towards a set of double doors.

“Anyway, I can dig it up for you and you should read it,” he says, as he pushes the doors open.

You bite off whatever comment you had about there being no point in reading it now that he's told you everything that happens, because he walks you into a library.

To be fair, it probably isn't the biggest library in the world, but it's by far the biggest you've ever seen in your life, and you gape.

“I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't have any books in Alternian,” he says sheepishly. “But...”

“I can read human script just fine,” you reply.

“Oh! Okay, I wasn't sure trolls bothered with it.”

“Learning to speak and write in any human dialect is a culling offense in the Empire,” you say, tearing your eyes away from the books to give him a level look.

“Gosh, then how did you...?”

“I was already likely to get culled for completely unrelated reasons,” you say.

There are three rows of bookshelves, as tall as the ceiling and extending from one end of the room to the other. Some of the books look very old, probably passed down to John from his ancestors. This collection must be the labor of several generations.

“What reasons would that be?” he prods as he follows you between the shelves.

He's blocking your way out, but he's not approaching. You still feel trapped, though, and you blame this feeling for your irritated tone.

“I'm an abomination, alright? I'm not supposed to exist. This shade of red,” and you gesture to your eyes, “isn't on the hemospectrum. I'm outside the natural order.”

He steps back slightly.

“I'm sorry, I didn't know,” he says.

You shake your head. It doesn't matter. Not here, not now. Unless he is opposed to taking a freak of nature to bed, but you don't think he's that picky, since he chose you to winter with him in the first place.

“But if you were already in danger of getting culled, why did you decide to put yourself at risk even more by learning our language?” he asks.

“Because then I could leave,” you say, and stare at the shelves. 

You take out a book at random, just to have something to do with your hands.

“I could come here and be free, for whatever that's worth. I could keep on living my pathetic life away from the drones and the Empire and the... the constant reminders of how I shouldn't be alive.”

“Oh, Karkat,” John whispers, and you refuse to look at him and see what expression he has on his face. You couldn't abide any pale advances right now, and humans tend to ooze pale at the slightest provocation.

You open the book and leaf through it. It's one of those horribly misspelled early editions from when humans were just getting the hang of the printing press. You stare at the words, but don't really pay attention to what's happening on the page.

“Tell you what, I have some letters to write today, but how about I leave you here for awhile?” he says.

You look at him askance.

“You can read whatever you want, as long as you don't, uh, damage anything, and when you get hungry you can go to the kitchens and Jane will give you anything you'd like.”

You desperately want to ask what the catch is, but it's not like you don't already know.

He leaves you alone, as promised, and you discover that human romance novels are actually pretty easy to identify by their utterly ridiculous titles, most of which feature prominently words like “forbidden”, “desire”, “heart” or “passion”. You have a sizable stack by the time you decide you have enough and start reading.

You are somewhat rusty with the written language, but you recall your lessons easily once delve into the novel. The bizarre romantic woes of humans are absolutely fascinating.

Sometime during late afternoon, you start feeling hungry. Your nutrition sack has apparently given up torturing you and is making apologetic noises, so you go to the kitchens as instructed. Jane isn't there, but the cook begrudgingly fixes you a plate of cold meats and cheeses and banishes you to the table in the corner while he goes about preparing dinner for the household.

You eat everything on your plate and return to the library. Your stack of books remains untouched on the table, and you wonder if you can take them out of the library.

In the end, you only take the book you've already started reading and return to your room.

You freeze in the doorway as you're greeted by the sight of John already there, sitting on your bed, apparently waiting for you.

“Hey, Karkat,” he greets cheerfully. “You know, this room seems to be getting smaller, and this bed is actually a lot more uncomfortable than it looks! Are you sure you don't want a better room?”

“This room's fine, I'm used to it now,” you grouse. It's not true, you're not used to it in the slightest, but you'll never learn to live with it if he keeps moving you from place to place.

“So you found something you like?” John asks, pointing to your book.

“Yeah, I... it's alright if I take it out of the library, isn't it?” you ask, suddenly unsure.

John shrugs.

“I do it all the time. Why are you standing there? Get inside and close the door.”

You pull the door a bit too abruptly and close it with a resounding slam. You grit your teeth in embarrassment.

“I think you just cracked the foundation,” John says with a grin. You hate how he can afford to find everything funny.

“What do you want?” you ask a bit too loudly.

“I just want to talk. Mind sitting down, though? This angle is making me get a crick in my neck.”

He pats the bed next to him, and you take a deep breath, put your book on the table. You sit to his right, your legs just barely touching, and you fold your arms so he can't see them shaking.

After that, you both sit in silence for a long time, regarding your shoes with great interest. He fidgets with his cuff, mottling the blue material, and you sit as still as you can, like you're trying to make him forget you're even there.

“I've just been thinking,” John says, and doesn't continue.

“About what?” you ask. Curiosity is gnawing at you right now, morbid though it may be.

“Just a lot of things.”

He puts an arm around your shoulders, and before you can sort out how you feel about this, he turns his head and leans his forehead against the side of yours.

“So. Hey. Can I kiss you?” he asks in not-quite a whisper. His breath is warm and soft against your neck, and the frames of his glasses are cold against your skin.

“Of course you can,” you reply, but it sounds harsh, more like a statement of fact than a granting of permission.

“Oh. Um.” He's caught at an impasse, and he doesn't make any move, not forward, and not to retreat.

You can already see that he's bent on making this whole thing leagues more awkward than it has any right to be, so you sigh and grab his collar, pulling him into a rough kiss.

It feels like you're mashing your faces together, and you probably look downright comical right now. You get the feeling that he's just as inexperienced with this kissing business as you are. But you slow down, and he tilts his head just right, and you find a sort of rhythm that works for you both, brushing lips together slowly in an imitation of flushed affection.

You could hate him  _so much_ , you think, and you nip at his bottom lip. He whimpers, and he tries to do the same to you. He takes your lower lip between his and sucks gently, and oh. You do hate him, you really do, because this sends tingles up and down your spine.

You can do this, you've found a way to do this. It's not as difficult as you thought it would be. You grip his shirt with both hands and you turn your whole body towards him, moving you left leg over his lap in the process. He leans into you, supporting his weight with one hand against the mattress, and his other hand is tangled in your hair. You wish he'd pull your hair just a bit, you wish he didn't kiss you so tenderly, you wish he wasn't a soft, doughy human and put some steel into his embrace, but you always knew you'd never get perfect romance, no matter how much you wished for it, so you make do.

You bury your disappointment underneath the pleasant blanket of sensation, in his heat and his odd salty taste, and his hand drifting down, delicately tracing your neck, smoothing over your chest, moving lower to settle on the inside of your thigh just above the knee. Oh, god, why is he moving so slow, why isn't he pressing down harder? His fingers trace the seam of your trousers, creeping higher—

And then he pulls away slightly, breaking off the kiss, but staying close so your labored breaths mingle. His hand returns to the more neutral knee area, and you feel a twinge of disappointment.

“I, uh... don't actually know what I'm doing,” he confesses.

“Just do what you've already been doing, only more so,” you reply. You feel frustration bubbling inside you, not because you're impatient, but because he should be getting this over with.

“No, no, I mean I've never—I'm not sure—um, wow, I... I don't think I'm ready for this,” he stammers, and pulls back.

You suppress the urge to punch him in the face—you have to remember that humans don't generally construe that kind of thing as a romantic gesture—but you feel bereft when he moves away from you.

“I'll just, ah... damn, it's really getting late, huh? You should catch up on sleep!”

He hops off the bed and before you even know it, he's out the door, yelling “good night!” over his shoulder as he absconds.

You have no idea what the fuck that was all about.


	8. Chapter 8

You do not catch up on sleep.

Sleeping during the night is difficult to you, probably as difficult as it would be for a human to sleep all day. Despite the fact that you are bone-tired and still weak from your ordeal, you can't force your eyes closed.

And right now you're afraid to. You keep having the feeling that you're close to getting thrown out, and the minute you close your eyes, servants are going to descend on you and heave you out the door. You've tried to convince yourself that if John wanted you out, he'd have thrown you out already, but this is made difficult by the fact that you don't understand him one fucking bit.

So you sit with a candle, trying to read, and you spend what must be half of the night in that seat, just worrying.

Towards morning, you drag yourself to bed, regretting the lack of sopor slime, and you try to sleep. In the end, your sleep doesn't feel that different from your waking hours, except that the nightmares are more vivid. 

You dream of Aradia that night, only instead of the hours of frustrating language lessons she so generously provided for you over the sweeps, what your subconscious mind chooses to remind you of is the night she died and you had to flee across the border even if you weren't ready yet. In your dream, Aradia's ghost whispers accusations in you ear as you try to outrun a squad of drones brandishing pails at you. That is definitely not how it actually happened.

You wake up around dawn, though it would be more accurate to say that you give up trying to sleep around dawn, and you dress yourself almost begrudgingly.

It is probably well past breakfast, but you drag yourself to the kitchens regardless. You find Jane there. She wordlessly hands you a plate and a cup of tea. The food is mostly cheese and bread, but the tea tastes wonderful.

You try not to mope while you eat. You also try not to be too obvious as you observe the behavior of the servants you run across. You try not to let yourself be tormented by questions (has anything changed? Does everybody know about last night? Has John given any orders about you? Endless, pointless questions roiling in your head like a swarm of insects.)

You head for the library, because you don't really know where else to go, and if you have to spend any more time worrying in your room, you will start clawing at the walls. You're on the last stretch of hallway before reaching the library, when you come across John.

He doesn't see you; he's leaning against a windowsill and looking outside with a dopey expression on his face, but when you move to leave (go back, go around, go anywhere but here), he hears your feet scuff the floor and turns his head.

There is a long moment when you look at each other, and you're not sure which one of you is projecting your embarrassment harder. Then he sort of straightens up and forces a smile.

“Morning, Karkat,” he says, trying to sound cheerful. “Hey, have you looked out the window yet?”

You shake your head, because that is absolutely the last thing you expected to come out of his mouth, and he waves you over.

The window is narrow, and you have to come up shoulder to shoulder with him in order to have a proper look out, but you still try to maintain your distance. You are so caught up in body space politics, however, that you almost miss the sight that so enraptured him.

Sometime during the night, it started snowing. A lot. Everything is coated in white, and a flurry of snowflakes are still descending from the sky.

You would be dead right now, you realize. John is the only reason you're alive, and warm, and not hungry right now, and he knows it. He's making a point of this. He must be. What other reason would he have to show you this?

“It's really pretty,” he says, as if in answer to your thoughts.

Oh, of course. Because “it's pretty”. You snort.

“Well, it is,” he defends himself. “I like how everything looks so different.”

“Yeah, you know when it really looks different? When you're buried under six feet of the stuff and slowly freezing to death,” you mutter.

His fake good cheer evaporates immediately.

“What's your problem?” he asks.

“You're going to throw me out, is my problem,” you snarl. “I get it, you got stiffed in the bargain and you want out, I can understand that, but if you're going to throw me out on my ass, don't dance around the issue. Grow a fucking spine and tell me to my face, you sadistic fuck.”

He stares at you for a long time, his face unreadable.

“Karkat, I am not throwing you out,” he says slowly.

“Then what the fuck was last night all about?” you ask, and you can feel your voice crack. “If you find me so repulsive, maybe you should renege.”

“No, I don't—Karkat, last night wasn't about you!” he says while his ears redden. “I just wasn't ready! I haven't ever really, y'know, done this kind of thing before.” The last words come in a whisper, as he looks around him, mortified that someone might overhear.

You can feel the wrenching ache around your bloodpusher, and you're sure this is hate. You have to clench your fists to stop yourself from sinking your claws into him. You've never met someone quite so rage-inducing, but this isn't really the time and the place for black flirtation.

“And what, you think I have?” you say calmly.

“Oh.” He looks away, then back at you. “Oh. So then you've never—“

“I've never wintered with anyone before,” you cut him off, because elaborating on the dismal state of your non-existent quadrants is just something you  _will not do_.

“Then you don't understand! It's a lot of pressure to have this sort of obligation,” he says.

“Don't talk me about obligation when the snows are already here,” you reply.

He looks almost hurt by what you're implying.

“I'm not going to force you to do anything, I'm not like that,” he says, immediately defensive. “I won't throw you out, no matter what happens—or doesn't happen, whichever.”

“But you still want something,” you say. “Even if it's not sex.”

“Urgh. Would it make you feel better if we got that out of the way?”

“What?”

“Yeah, tonight. We'll... we'll get it out of the way, and you can stop being so tense all the time,” he repeats with greater confidence.

This still doesn't answer the question of what he really wants from you, and not knowing is starting to fill you with a dread much worse than upholding your end of the bargain ever did.

“Yeah, tonight,” you repeat quietly, and John nods.

And you  _still_  don't understand him one fucking bit.


	9. Chapter 9

You are fairly sure that you are not displaying the dignity befitting your station when your palms are this sweaty, and if you were completely honest, this is perhaps the first time in your life you wished you had that much dignity.

But, well, what you told Karkat was true. You have no real idea what you're doing, because while you're aware of the mechanics involved, you're not very well versed in the, uh... social etiquette. That is a good name for it.

You're rather vague on when Karkat is expecting you, so you make your way to his room some time after dinner. You knock on his door firmly, and you're proud of how confident those knocks sounded. Yep. Confident as hell, that's you.

Karkat opens the door abruptly, and you both stare at each other for a moment, like startled cats. He is the first to find his voice.

“Are you coming in or what?”

You smile sheepishly and enter. He closes the door behind you with excessive care, then turns around and looks at you expectantly.

You scratch the back of your neck, at a loss. Do you just... go up to him and...? What is the general protocol with these things?

He sighs audibly and walks up to you. You have no idea what he intends until he actually puts a hand against your chest and pushes you gently backwards. The back of your knees hit the edge of the bed and you flop down on the mattress.

He takes off your glasses.

“Can you still see without these?” he asks.

“I'm nearsighted, I'm not  _blind_ ,” you reply, giving him a small grin.

Karkat shrugs and places the glasses on the table.

You reach out and grab his hand, pulling him towards you. He lets you, and it's a bit scary how pliant he is all of a sudden. You make him sit on the bed next to you.

“We should just get this over with,” he mutters.

“Well, if that's what you want...”

“Yes, it's what I want,” he snaps, and in one sudden twitch pull his shirt over his head and throws it on a nearby chair.

Are you blushing right now? Why are you blushing. You've seen shirtless guys before. No big deal.

Oh, look. Karkat has no nipples. This is not something you were expecting to find out today, but there you go. He does have six strange strips of red skin, three on either side of his torso. You reach out and trace one with your fingers. He flinches away.

“I'm sorry, did that hurt?” you ask, and he shakes his head and mumbles something. “I didn't catch that.”

“It tickles, you ass,” he says unnecessarily loud.

You giggle. You're not sure why you find his irritation so funny, but it's better than the resigned meekness from before. You press your palms against his sides, running them over the strange patches, and he yelps a bit, falling back on the bed. He manages, belatedly, to slap your hands away, and you laugh.

“What are these things, anyway?”

“Vestigial skin flaps from my last pupation. They used to be my grub legs.”

“Oooh.”

“You have no idea what I just said.”

“Nope.”

He sighs and rubs his forehead tiredly.

“It's like one of those pits humans have in the middle of their abdomen?” he says.

“Like a navel?... huh.”

“Nevermind that. Weren't we in the middle of something?”

“Not really? We were barely just getting started, I don't think what we were doing counted as being in the middle of anything. Unless that thing was a bunch of awkward flailing around?” 

“ _John_.”

“Hehe.”

This is the first time you've heard him say your name. You definitely like him better when he's irritated, so you kiss him. He's a lot more careful with his fangs than last time, but he's still rough and sloppy; then again, you're probably not much better yourself, and you do find it endearing.

You shift into a more comfortable position, supporting your weight on an elbow. You want to touch him, partly because it seems like the kind of thing that's done in this situation, and partly because you're curious about how different he might feel. Running your hand over him, you're noticing all sorts of new things, like how he's much broader in the shoulders than you, or how his body heat is almost overwhelming. His skin is rougher than yours, somewhat leathery, but fascinating to the touch, and his hair is coarse.

Then you reach his horns; you find the tip of one horn and trace it down into his hair. When you touch the skin at the base of his horn, he makes a strangled sound into your mouth and his hips twitch up.

Did you do that?

You rub the base of his horn again, and this time he breaks off the kiss to moan. It's not very loud, and he looks away afterwards, like he's embarrassed, but he really doesn't need to be, because that sound just send an intense jolt of heat through you. You nuzzle against his exposed neck and rub at the spot again, slower, but Karkat is probably expecting it, because you only hear him hiss quietly.

It's terribly hot all of a sudden.

“I think... I should get undressed,” you say out loud, even if it's more to yourself.

You get up to shrug off your coat and shirt, and you drape them over the backrest of a chair with more care than Karkat did with his shirt, and then you pull off your shoes, but you're still debating whether you should take off your trousers. It feels a bit fast, and Karkat hasn't even taken his own off yet.

The decision is taken out of your hands when Karkat tiptoes up behind you and reaches around to give your crotch a firm squeeze.

You make an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp and swivel around, backing up against a wall.

“Karkat! What the hell!” you yell, probably much like a scandalized spinster aunt would.

“Well it's not like you have horns,” he huffs.

“So you made a grab for the nearest horn-looking thing available?”

“No, I made a grab for your bulge,” he says slowly. “Why? Do human bulges look like horns?” And this time,  _he's_  the one looking like the scandalized spinster aunt as he eyes your trousers.

“I've seen some of the horns you trolls have,” you point out. “It would be pretty horrifying if they did.”

He considers this for a few moments, and nods. 

“Fine,” he says, and advances on you.

You're not sure what he intends until he's already up against you and sinking his hands into your hair. It stings a bit as he grabs fistfuls and tugs, but he presses you against the wall with his entire body and pulls your head down so he can kiss you.

It's different than before, maybe because you can feel the friction of his skin against yours this time, and every brush sends pleasant heat tingling through your body to pool in your groin. Speaking of which—

“Karkat,” you hiss when he grabs you  _again_ , although this time a bit more gently. Did he think he was being sneaky and you wouldn't feel him? Because that is the exact opposite of the truth.

“I'm going to see it anyway,” he growls, and you can feel the vibrations of it all through your body (oh god why does that feel so good?).

“You first.”

“Haha, no,” he deadpans. “Fuck you.”

“Is what you'll be doing in a minute.”

He releases you and takes a step back. You're afraid that you might have offended him and killed the mood, but with a very deliberate movement of his wrist, he claws off the topmost button of your trousers. It flies off; you can hear it bouncing against the floor and rolling under the bed.

Wow, rude!

Weirdly arousing, but rude!

Then he does it again, with the next button. And the next. You squirm against the wall.

This is going to be very awkward to explain to whoever has to sew those buttons back on.

This doesn't stop you from arching your back and pushing against his hand slightly. He's halfway through the row of buttons, and you're half-hard. You shouldn't be so eager with a set of claws anywhere near your groin.

Karkat loses his patience, or maybe curiosity gets the better of him, because he finally growls and gives up on the buttons, pulling your trousers down roughly. You gasp at the sudden rush of cold air.

And Karkat stares. 

For, okay, a really long time. Are humans really that different? This is starting to make you a little self-conscious.

“Will you just  _do_  something?” you say once impatience gets the better of you.

“Shut up, I'm getting to it,” he snaps, and starts undoing his own buttons.

And now you're the one staring because...

Is that a...

It's...

...definitely a tentacle. You guess it's what he calls a bulge, and it's longer and thinner than you expected, not to mention very flexible. It's also slightly ridged at the base, and smoother as it tapers off at the tip. 

All of a sudden, Dave's bizarre references to Terezi's “wiggly bits” make a lot more sense.

“Is it supposed to be that color?” you ask, and he looks at you like you're cracked in the head.

“Yes, because that's my blood color,” he replies.

“But that isn't...”

“Blood? God no, what's wrong with you?”

He puts a hand on your shoulder and one on your hip and pulls you flush against him. You're riddled with doubt until his bulge wraps around you, and then you just gasp and slump against the wall. It feels so utterly strange and wet and alien, but something about the friction and the heat is just right and you reflexively thrust your hips. Karkat's tentacle-bulge thing disentangles from you almost completely at this movement. Oops.

Karkat makes a frustrated noise and grips your hips hard enough to bruise, keeping you still. His bulge wraps around you again and writhes in a manner you never thought you'd ever consider erotic, but there you go. This must be very frustrating for him, since you assume another troll would be wrapping their own bulge around his by this point. That's not exactly something you can do, and moving your hips too much would just make things more difficult for him.

He's scowling something awful right now. It's his thoughtful scowl. Heh.

You don't have the patience to see if he comes up with a solution himself. You cup your hands around his bulge and your cock, holding just tight enough to keep them joined together, and you give another shallow thrust.

Karkat's eyes glaze over slightly as he inhales sharply.

“Like that?” you ask, feeling smug.

“Definitely... like that,” he says, licking his dry lips.

You kiss him at the corner of his mouth, and begin to move his hips. It's not a perfect fit; he tries to match your movements, but his timing is off. Everything is almost-enough at first, until he finds a way to mold himself to your body, with weird little circular motions. It's frustrating in the best possible way as you work for every single drop of pleasure. Time loses its meaning, and you rock together gently against each other, numb to anything beyond your bodies.

You're both breathing heavily and Karkat doesn't know what to do with his hands—he keeps scratching down your shoulders and catching himself before he draws blood, and then he looks at you like he expects you to say something, but you just grin and give an especially vigorous thrust when he does, and he whimpers or gasps.

(He makes the best noises. Something inside you leaps whenever you hear him, and it feels so good it's almost painful.)

When you feel yourself getting close, you flip your positions and press him against the wall instead. If he is unhappy with this reversal, you don't hear his complaints, because you kiss him hard as you come.

You gasp and release him, disentangling yourself from him, because all of a sudden it's painful.

“You're done?” he asks, sounding disappointed.

His bulge is undulating harder than before you started. It's also swollen and flushed a deep red, which you assume means he definitely isn't done.

So you take it into your hand, and it tangles around your fingers eagerly. Karkat sighs and closes his eyes, leaning his head against the wall.

“What... um. Karkat, what should I do?” you ask, because you feel silly just standing there while his bulge does all the work.

“Just kiss me, asshole,” he says, and you're happy to oblige him.

You wiggle your fingers a bit, and his bulge tightens around them. You know you must be doing something right, because Karkat moans into your mouth.

Then, without any warning, he makes a strange strangled clicking noise. His whole body shudders, his back arches, and his bulge give one final spasm, and when it's over, his whole body loses all its tension, like a puppet after having its strings cut. It's all very dramatic.

And you decide you want to see it again.


	10. Chapter 10

“Did you find it yet?”   
  
“No, and I won't unless you get off my fucking back. Are you sure it's here?”   
  
“I heard it go under the bed.”   
  
“Fuck. Alright.”   
  
“Let me have a look.”   
  
“No, shut up. I'm going to find that button even if I have to go form a posse and hunt it down with torches and pitchforks. I will rile up that mob until they're frothing at the mouth with righteous rage against the button, and we will tear through this room like savage aurochs through the forest, uprooting everything in our path until there is naught but splinters and rent earth left in our passing, and that button will learn the meaning of stark cold pants-shitting terror if it's the last thing I do in my short and ignominious existence.”   
  
“...You know, they say you get more bees with honey than with vinegar.”   
  
You sigh and re-emerge from under the bed, throwing John a withering glare. He's sitting at the table, playing with the three other buttons in his hand. He's dressed again.  _Mostly_ dressed, but it's sort of late and he said nobody would be awake to see their lord walk down the hall while holding up his trousers. Still. It's the last time you try something out of a romance novel.   
  
“Why don't  _you_  try finding it, then?” you suggest.   
  
He shrugs and puts down the button, lowering himself to the floor to peer under the bed. You step away, preparing to sit down and wait while he gropes around blindly for half an hour or so. Humans can't see for shit in the dark, so if you haven't found it, he's not bound to have much more success.   
  
“Found it,” he announces almost immediately, and produces the button. “What did I tell you?”   
  
You sputter.    
  
“Where the fuck—okay, I call bullshit. There's no way I missed it. You're trying to trick me. Where was it really?”   
  
“Right here, behind the leg.”   
  
He gets back up, casually brushing dust off his clothes.   
  
“Bastard,” you hiss.   
  
“Hey, it's not my fault I'm lucky.”   
  
“Not you, the button.”   
  
John laughs.    
  
God, you hate his guts. They always say that when serendipity happens, you'll know, and you do. You really do know.   
  
This is the best night you've had in perigees.

*

Perhaps it's because you're emotionally overwrought, but you sleep very little that night. The little sleep you do get, however, is unusually restful, and you have barely any nightmares to speak of. You wake up earlier in the morning, long before the sun rises, when the servants are just getting up to go about their day.

You wait until the sound of steps outside your door lessens, but even so, you run straight into Jade the moment you go out.

“Remember to wash up,” she tells you in passing, and by the smirk she gives you when you glare at her, you get the feeling she's teasing you.

Still, it's a good idea, and you find a basin of water and a washcloth waiting for you in the washroom. Perhaps this early in the morning, nobody is in the mood to pump water and wait for it to heat up, because the water in the basin is ice cold and probably no more than melted snow.

You go to the kitchens, but hover in the doorway nervously when you get there. The servants—half a dozen or so—are gathered around a long table, having breakfast together. They're laughing softly and talking in low, sleepy voices, but their easygoing camaraderie sends a spike of inexplicable longing through you.

There's no reason for it. You don't even like these humans, and you're fairly sure none of them like you.

“Karkat, I see you're up.”

You flinch away from the voice and hunch your shoulders when everybody turns to stare at you. Jane comes in through the same doorway as you.

“Yeah, I'm up.” You inch closer to the wall.

“Join us?” she offers with a smile.

“No, there isn't any room, I'll just come back later,” you say, waving your hand.

“Nonsense, old chap, I was just leaving,” one of the men from the table says and gets up, still holding his bowl and shoveling the off-white gruel into his mouth as he slowly walked towards the opposite door.

“Jake, what have I told you about eating on the run?” Jane sighs.

“Sorry, Miss Crocker, I'm late for my patrol,” he says, pouring the last contents of the bowl into his mouth and throwing it into a large trough by the door. A patrol implies he is a guard of some sort, and now that you notice, he is wearing a light and rather battered set of leather armor.

“No you're not,” another man from the table calls out, but Jake is already out the door and away.

“Oh, let him go, Aimes,” one of the servant women says. “He's very dedicated to his job.”

“No, he isn't, Pearl,” Aimes grumbles. “He's just stupid and reckless and looking to get in a 'scrum'.”

“There hasn't been any trouble around these parts since the war,” a wan-faced middle-aged servant remarks while picking at his food.Jane seats you in Jake's place, between this last servant and a quiet girl perhaps no older than fourteen human years. She gives you a tiny smile before looking back at her food. She is also blushing for some reason.

You're handed a bowl of the same substance the servants are eating, but it isn't as awful to the taste as you'd expected. It's sweet and the texture is very smooth. You'd compare it to grub sauce, but it doesn't have the tell-tale crunchy bits, and anyway, there aren't any beige-blooded grubs as far as you know. At any rate, it's very filling.

The subdued chatter continues around you, and you learn nothing more except that the girl you're sitting next to is named Serenity (and that's just the kind of fucking disaster that happens when humans are allowed to name each other), and the age-worn man on your other side used to be a soldier of some sort.

Everybody finishes before you, and you're left alone with Jane, helping her clean the table and put everything in the washing trough. 

“You don't have to bother,” she says, “this isn't exactly why you're here.”

It stings, the way she phrases it, but you don't let it show. It's not worth it.

You go to the library. With all the lamps off and only the milky pre-dawn light peeking through the windows, it's comfortably dark in here. You curl up on a sofa with your book, and concentrate only on trying to make sense of the human lovestory presented therein, which manages to be both laughably simplistic and unnecessarily convoluted at the same time.

Humans muddy their quadrants together in the most idiotic fashion, and then wonder why none of their relationships work out. You know the answer. It is because they are, to a one, imbeciles.

And then you put the book aside and realize, with some horror, that humans  _don't have quadrants_. The remnants of your post-coital glee fade like the last drops of water under the desert sun, because you've just realized that your breathless joy at having a kismesis was ill-conceived, when John couldn't even spell the word, much less understand what it entails.


	11. Chapter 11

“You're up early.”

John's voice startles you but you cover it up by putting your book aside.

“What, is there a law against it? Thou shalt not wake up earlier than the most indolent asswipe of the house?” you snap at him.

He only grins.

“Why are you sitting in the dark, anyway?” he asks, as he turns on one of the lamps. You wince at the sudden light.

“It's not dark unless you're a visually impaired meatsack with the compulsion to hang pretty glowing stuff on every inch of your wall lest you go for five minutes without being distracted by a fucking shiny light.”

“Oh, you mean you can see in the dark?”

“Better than you can, anyway.”

“That's so amazing! So if I turned off the lamp—“

“Then you'd be bumbling around and stubbing your toes on furniture until the sun came up,” you interrupt him. “Leave it, I don't mind it nearly as much as I mind your inane prattling.” You narrow your eyes and wait to see how he will react to your mild black flirtations.

He snickers and walks up towards you, sprawling down on the sofa a little distance from you. He picks up the book between you and flips through it casually.

“Why are you reading books for girls?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at you.

“I'm not,” you growl. “I'm reading a story dealing with the complexities of human romantic liaisons in times of great upheaval.”

“It's a story about some airhead girl who only ever thinks about kissing some boy despite the fact that there is a war going on around her.”

“So you've read it then.”

He blushes and closes the book with a resounding thunk.

“I thought it was about... something else, alright?” he defends himself. “But you seem to know exactly what it's about.”

“So do you,” you snort. “The war isn't even mentioned until page fifty-two. The first thirty pages are just graphic depictions of the protagonist's daydreams.” Which read more like pale longings, what with all the intense ruminations on hand-holding and hugging, but you were rapidly disabused of this notion once innocent little Mariel started picturing some fairly graphic pailing scenarios.

“Maybe I skipped ahead.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Or maybe I just skimmed it.”

“ _Uh-huh_.”

“Shut up.” He folds his arms and sticks out his bottom lip like a petulant wriggler.You feel incredibly smug about getting to him. It's easy to enjoy the black stirrings he produces when he's in this state.

Just because humans don't have quadrants, doesn't mean they can't experience the same feelings as trolls, you assure yourself. Maybe it's something worth looking into. You'll need more of these human romance novels to start your research. You're sure you're on to something here. You can... you can make this work, somehow. You're sure you can. It's not like you have any other prospects for your quadrants. This might be your only opportunity to know how having a kismesis feels.

Right now, though, you just want to kiss his stupid pout.

“Karkat, what are you doing?”

You're kneeling up on the sofa and leaning towards him, coiled and ready to pounce. He turns towards you and leans back a bit, and that show of weakness is all the provocation you need.

He falls back easily as you tackle him, and when you start kissing him, it takes him only a few moments to get his bearings and kiss back. His arms go around you and he holds on tightly as you set a relentless pace.

At one point, as he comes up for air, he huffs warmly against the side of your face, like he's trying to whisper in your ear, “Karkat, we really shouldn't be doing this here.” You growl and catch his lips again.

When the door opens you almost don't notice, but for a slight movement in the corner of your eye. John makes a choked sound and you both look to the new arrival in various states of startled and sheepish. You are frozen in place by sheer mortification.

“No, don't mind me,” the amused blonde woman in the black dress says. “I didn't mean to interrupt, I was only looking for some light reading. Ah.”

She walks up towards you and picks up your book from the floor, where you must've knocked it down at some point during your... your shameless snogging. She reads the title, and the corner of her lip lifts slightly more.

“This shall do nicely,” she says, and shuffles off, noiselessly closing the door behind her.

“Told you,” John says quietly.

“I was still reading that,” you mutter unhappily.

“Oh, well, I'd like to see you try getting it back from Rose now—“

You shut him up. You shut him up a lot.


	12. Chapter 12

Once snow starts falling, it doesn't really stop, so for the next week, you have Jake and Aimes are taken off their mostly superfluous guard duty in order to help clear the roofs. Jake complains, of course, because Jade accidentally gave him the idea that wolves might come down from the mountains in search of food and he's eager to slay one of the poor beasts, but the last time there was this much snow, the roof of the eastern wing collapsed under the weight of it, and you'd all prefer the manor survives this winter intact. Rose is still grumbling about the costs of those repairs, even if it was years ago.   
  
You still worry a bit, because the winter is shaping up to be long and difficult, but Jane gives you reassurances that a winter of heavy snowfalls bodes well for the next year's crops. You wonder if it bodes just as well for the villagers, though granted, their roofs are much smaller and easier to clear than yours.   
  
Karkat is oblivious to most of these happenings, and even expresses surprise that snow can be so damaging. From what he tells you, the Alternian Empire's climate is so warm that they rarely see snow.   
  
“Must be nice,” you say wistfully as you put your feet up by the fire. The lamps in the library are all turned off and the only light comes from the fireplace. It's cozy like this.   
  
“It's hot and humid and the mosquitos are literally the size of slugs,” he mutters unhappily, as he sits bundled up in two blankets in front of the fireplace. There is a chill in the air that not even ample amounts of firewood can't dispel.   
  
“Yeah, we have some pretty big bugs in the summer, too.”   
  
“I've seen your mosquitos. They barely cover the tip of a finger. How the fuck is that in any way comparable to ours?”   
  
“...What? Wait, when you said  _literally_  the size of slugs you meant...”   
  
“I meant fucking literally. What about that statement is throwing you off?”   
  
“Well, most people, when they say literally, actually mean metaphorically.”   
  
“Then most people are possessed of a staggering amount of stupidity under the weight of which they traverse through life as intellectually hobbled as a potmender's mule.”   
  
You chuckle.   
  
“You're very good with words,” you tell him, and he looks at you sadly.   
  
“I had a good teacher,” he says, and then he turns to look into the fire.   
  
“You don't speak much about the Empire,” you say after a while.   
  
“There's a reason for that.”   
  
“But it was your home.”   
  
“It was a place. It wasn't home. It was just a stretch of land where I had the misfortune of being spat out by the Mother Grub and where I grew up meant only for a short and pointless life.”   
  
“There must have been people you cared about, and who cared about you.”   
  
“And now they're all fucking dead, so I guess that didn't work out so well for them in the end, did it?” His voice cracks on the last word.   
  
He turns back to the fire and stares into it with his shoulders hunched, and you see his back heave up and down a few times before you realize he's crying. 

“Hey, no, Karkat, I'm sorry—“   
  
You kneel down next to him and try to hug him, but he plants his palm right over your face and pushes you away. His eyes are watery, and the tears trailing down his cheeks are pinkish in color.   
  
“What the fuck do you think you're doing?“ he hisses.   
  
“Mmmph.” He removes his hand. “I was just trying to make you feel better.”   
  
“You were trying to hug me, asshole.”   
  
“Uh, yeah, that's usually what humans do when we want to comfort each other,” you say, and you can't help the annoyance that slips into your voice.   
  
“Well don't. That's not what trolls do unless it's under some pretty specific circumstances.”   
  
“We have specific circumstances too. Like when we've accidentally made someone cry.”   
  
“That's stupid. You're stupid.”   
  
“I take it back, you're pretty terrible with words.”   
  
“That's more like it.”   
  
“...What?”   
  
“I don't need your hugs. I don't need your sympathy, and I sure as fuck don't need your compliments unless I've wrenched them out through sheer begrudging admiration.”   
  
His tears are dry now, and he regards you with the kind of implacable grimness that anti-heroes have in ballads. It's sort of impressive, but it's just the tiniest bit scary, and you're not sure what's happening right now.   
  
“Is this a troll thing?” you ask.   
  
“Yes, it's a troll thing,” and his answer sounds like mockery.   
  
“Then I guess it's just your luck that I'm not a troll,” you reply, and rise to leave.   
  
You feel his gaze on the back of your neck as you close the door behind you. For a moment, you want to sag against the door, but you don't. Your steps take you to Rose's study.

 


	13. Chapter 13

The fact of the matter is, you thought things were going pretty well. You liked Karkat, and you thought that he liked you in turn. How could someone who disliked you kiss you so thoroughly, and touch you in all those ways that made your toes curl and heat rise to your cheeks?   
  
But then, if he liked you, how could he rebuff your affection so categorically?   
  
You don't phrase these questions exactly like that to Rose, because despite the fact that you and Karkat have been rutting like rabbits, you do have shame, but she gets the general gist of your dilemma.   
  
“The problem,” she says, “is that trolls might not conduct such affairs anywhere near to how we do.”   
  
“Could've fooled me,” you mutter.   
  
“I was not referring to the physical act,” she says.   
  
“Ahaha, um, I wasn't either.” A flimsy defense when she can clearly see your blush. But she only gives you a deadpan look and moves on.   
  
“Their relationships might be fundamentally different from ours, and as such, we might not fully grasp the implications of certain words or behaviors.”   
  
“What, are hugs poisonous to trolls?”   
  
“Do we know for a fact that they aren't?”   
  
“Roooose.”   
  
“I am perfectly serious. We don't know nearly as much about trolls as we pretend we do, and most of it is merely assumption or speculation.”   
  
“They're not really that different from us, Rose. Trolls are people too.”   
  
“You are missing my point entirely, my lord. Simply because they are people as well doesn't immediately mean that they must act as we do, unless you award personhood by how closely one can imitate human behavior, which is, might I say, an unfair demand to make of someone who is of a different species. Divergent systems of belief and behavior are to be expected, if only on account of our biological differences.”   
  
“Okay, so what do I do?”   
  
“My lord, have you considered talking to Karkat? Ultimately, there's no way to know what you are doing wrong unless he clearly spells it out for you. It will save you a lot of trouble in the long run to tackle this issue head-on.”   
  
“I don't think he wants to talk.”   
  
“So you're just going to sit here and pout and complain instead of going to him and finding out for yourself if he wants to talk?”   
  
“I am not pouting.”   
  
“Good. Then perhaps you'd like to go and not pout at Karkat.”   
  
“You're being very unhelpful right now.”   
  
“That means you have even less of a reason to stay, my lord.”   
  
You leave, but you make sure to sigh loudly on your way out.   
  
Karkat is no longer in the library when you get there. You go to his room, but there's no answer at the door, and even if he's inside, barging in over him might not go over well. Even if this is still your house and he is just a guest.   
  
You don't really know where else he could have gone, so you turn around and head for the kitchens. It's where you always went as a child when you felt adrift. Jane was always there to listen to you and even though you're all grown up now and she no longer sneaks you pastries before dinner, you find her company pleasant and soothing, like she's the older sister you never had.   
  
Sure enough, you walk in on Jane kneading dough on the table as you have hundreds of times before.   
  
And Karkat is right there with her.

*

Karkat stirs the bowl with the kind of intense scowl someone might have while grinding the bones of their enemies into dust. He doesn't look at you, doesn't even acknowledge your presence, and the only time he stops stirring is when he presents the mixture to Jane for approval.

“Pour a bit more milk in,” she advises, and he does so. “That's enough. Now keep stirring.”

Jane seems perfectly content to play along with Karkat, and apart from a murmured greeting, she hasn't said anything else to you.

You stand by the wall, shifting from foot to foot, unsure what to say. This seems like a good time to talk to Karkat, but Jane is here, and you can't just send her away while she's baking, because it would be rude and would probably throw her whole day into chaos. You know Jane likes to run a tight ship.

Asking Karkat to come with you might be just as pointless. He looks like he's in the mood to dig his heels in no matter what you might suggest. If the house was on fire and you told him to run, he'd probably throw himself in the flames just to spite you.

“Hey, Janey. What are you making?” you ask.

“Wouldn't you rather it be a surprise?” she asks you with a sly smile. That means it's probably going to be something you like.

“Oh, I see how it is,” you smile in return. “Maybe Karkat will tell me.”

“Go fuck yourself with firepoker, I'm not letting you circumvent Jane's authority as Mistress of the Kitchen through me.” The way he says it, with a completely straight face, and Jane's solemn expression (ruined only a bit by how she had to press her lips together to stop herself from smiling) make you raise your hands in a placating gesture. You're pretty sure nobody has used the title “Mistress of the Kitchen” seriously in over eighty years, and even then, nobody used it as seriously as Karkat did just now.

“Whoa... I'm sorry, I wasn't aware Jane had drafted you.”

“Yes, that's right,” Jane nods. “Whisking Ensign Karkat, that's him. He knows how to use a wooden spoon.”

“Huh, it's not every day you come across someone with that kind of skill set,” you nod approvingly.

“I'm standing  _right here_ ,” he growls at the two of you. “I can hear everything you're saying.”

You and Jane burst into laughter.

“That's not even how armies work,” he mutters unhappily, and you and Jane have to stamp down another fit of giggles.

“Well, at any rate,” Jane says, “I'm granting you shore leave—“ Karkat's eye twitches, “—so put the bowl down and step out of my kitchen, please.”

“...What?” Karkat mouths after a long pause.

“You heard me,” Jane says sternly. “Go on, get, out, out, out.”

Karkat puts the bowl down and scurries out the door like he honest to goodness believes Jane is his commanding officer.

“Thank you,” you whisper to Jane as you go after him. She winks. Hehe. Definitely like a big sister.


	14. Chapter 14

Just as expected, John follows you out of the kitchen and your attempts at losing him are foiled by the fact that he knows this house much better than you do. You take a wrong turn somewhere and reach a dead end.   
  
“Karkat, come on, talk to me,” he says as he catches up.   
  
You turn on your heel and face him so abruptly, that he startles and takes a step back.   
  
“I'm sorry,” you growl.   
  
“You're sorry?”   
  
“I'm sorry for being an asshole earlier. I don't know what the fuck I was thinking.”   
  
“Ahaha, um, okay. I don't know either, which is why I thought maybe you'd like to tell me?”   
  
“Tell you what?”   
  
“If hugs are poisonous to trolls.”   
  
“...What.”   
  
“It's just that,” John fidgets as he talks, “I don't really know all that much about trolls! I don't know what you guys find normal, and I don't want to do anything awful that will hurt you without even realizing it.”   
  
He sounds so earnest, so full of pity for you, that you feel a confused stab of emotion at the display. Without even realizing it, he has put the final nail in the coffin of your caliginous aspirations, and for some reason you can't even begrudge him for it. He's not capable, you realize, of hating you romantically. He's soft and human and can't handle something as visceral as black romance, even if he knew what that was.   
  
“What do you want to know?” you ask, dreading the answer.   
  
“I guess... I want to know if we're friends,” he says.   
  
Friends. Like the innocuous human friendship he is familiar with, and not the contentious network of mutual interest, distrust, competition and necessity that describes troll relationships.   
  
“I mean, I learned my lesson, I'm not going to hug you if you don't want to, and I won't pity you—“ (and hearing him saying it makes something inside you ache, even if you know he doesn't mean it in a romantic sense) “—but I still want you to be my friend.”   
  
“Alright,” you say, and his whole face lights up. His hands go up, and then down again when he remembers himself, but you sigh and gesture him over. “You only get the one,” you tell him, and open your arms.   
  
He pulls you into a crushing embrace, and even lifts you off the ground a bit. You allow it (might as well let him make the best of it), and he holds on for a long time.   
  
“Thanks,” he whispers against your shoulder. It sounds so fraught, that it makes you realize how important this is to him. Maybe your rejection of his friendly advances hurt him as much as the impossibility of his hating you hurt in turn.   
  
It's a bit dizzying, to matter so much to someone, even if it's not in the way you would have hoped. To be wanted in any capacity. To... inspire feelings that aren't contempt or disgust.   
  
He nuzzles your shoulder and sighs. You plant tiny kisses on the side of his neck, and release yourself from the carefully delineated construct of troll romance. It's confusing and scary, but you force yourself not to think about it.   
  
He straightens up and kisses you on the lips, and almost with no space in the interim, you end up in his bed.   
  
Later, as you straddle his hips and trace the strange planes of his chest, he smiles at you languidly and it strikes you that this might not be the usual course of human friendships. You're not sure what's happening, but you're not in the mood to question it either.


	15. Epilogue

The last day of winter dawns on John and Karkat as they lay together in John's bed, their legs tangled together and their noses nearly pressed together. As the cold sun of early spring makes its way in the room through a slit in the curtains covering the windows, they go on sleeping, each perfectly content in this moment, despite the fact that Karkat tends to get too possessive with the pillows and John often drools in his sleep.   
  
When the last patch of snow disappears and delicate green shoots start taking over, and neither can deny that winter is over anymore, there will be parting, and anger and sadness. They will once again be a lord tied to his land and a troll drifter, and the intractable courses their lives must take will separate them.   
  
There will be a spring marked by flooding, and a sweltering summer, followed by plentiful crops in the fall. It will be a year full of joys and worries and scattered moments of melancholy by the fire.   
  
And the roads leading away from here will be dangerous, and unknown, and filled with strangers, both troll and human. There will be a chance encounter that will end in pale serendipity, and an enclave of revolutionaries who do not know yet that they are waiting for someone.   
  
And eventually, there will be another winter. And then another, and another.   
  
There will be reunions and departures, in a cycle as immutable as the seasons.   
  
Right now, though, there are only quiet hours spent together in the comfort of each other's company, and no thought for any complications that the future might bring.


End file.
